


The Nizam of Hyderabad, Chapter 7: Qadar

by SirJosephBanksFRS



Series: The Nizam of Hyderabad [7]
Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirJosephBanksFRS/pseuds/SirJosephBanksFRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of massive storms in the Indian Ocean results in an engagement and a wholly unexpected reunion of former <i>Sophies.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nizam of Hyderabad, Chapter 7: Qadar

It was, Jack Aubrey, thought, one of the strangest sort of reunions he had ever experienced. Here he was, one of five who had served on his first command, the _Sophie_ now from three different ships, all brought together by two hurricanos and three typhoons, two of which had blown _Surprise_ two thousand nautical miles off course. Stephen was attending one on the orlop whilst three of them were sitting in together in the great cabin, after the engagement.

 The engagement: the second storm had finally blown itself out around what would have been sunset, had there been any sun to see, the previous evening. _Surprise_ had just been getting her bearings and was being put back entirely into trim. Jack was very pleased, for she had lost nothing of great value and had ridden out the worst succession of storms he had ever known quite handsomely. He had put her head north, under courses, topsails and topgallants and they were making a good seven and a half knots easily. It was early morning still -- three bells in the morning watch had just been called and rung. Jack had risen an hour earlier, had eaten his first breakfast, having left an exhausted Doctor Maturin deeply asleep in Jack's cot, finally able to rest, having sedated Jennings so well with laudanum that they might both sleep,  he himself having taken nothing stronger than a cup of infusion of valerian. The decks had already been holystoned, swabbed and were beaten dry and the sun had risen but was very low in sky when Jack distinctly heard the sound of guns firing and the call came from the starboard lookout, “On deck there! Sail ho! Two sail! Two sail, sir!”

“Where away, Mr. Robbins?” Jack said as he immediately started climbing up the mast, surprised himself at how quickly and easily he ascended, the sound of great gun fire being a potent stimulant to him, always.

“Three points off the starboard bow, sir.”

Sure enough, as Jack climbed into the crosstrees and put his second best spyglass to his good eye, there were two sail in the north northeast, just visible in the early morning light. To Jack's surprise, there was what appeared to be an Indiaman, most of her spars gone, as well as her top masts and many of her sails, apparently in the process of being taken possession of by what appeared to be a corvette, yardarm to the Indiaman's few remaining yardarms with her, a bit more than half a league away now and the distance diminishing rapidly. Tom Pullings was on deck below him, his glass trained as well. All the _Surprises_ on deck were like a pack of hounds that had caught the scent of the fox, as every eye strained to three points off the starboard bow and those with spyglasses had them trained in that direction almost immediately. Their corporate exhaustion had entirely evaporated. Pullings was ascending near Jack, his glass out, his brow knit to sharpen his gaze.

“She is, I believe, a Turk, sir.” Pullings called. “A corsair, I dare say. I would wager she is our old _Mignonne_ , out of Cherbourg. I will know for certain if we see her figurehead. It was very distinctive.”

“The boy and girl?” Jack said. He remembered _Mignonne_ for her utterly preposterous figurehead for a man-of-war, a little boy and girl with hands clasped, holding a basket of flowers together to strew them into the sea. She was a little older than _Surprise_ , smaller still but had been remarkably fast in her day. He had seen her in the Mediterranean back during the time of the Battle of the Nile, had gone aboard her once, with a dispatch for her captain. Her complement had been a mere eighty back then. She had been sold out of the service long before _Surprise_ had, but apparently she had not made it to be broken up, for here she was, improbably enough somewhere in the Indian Ocean, with a crew of corsairs. Yet he had heard tell recently of corsairs, mostly Barbary pirates, taking slaves all the way down the west coast of Africa and now coming up through the Red Sea to sell them in Cidde or Suez, where the demand was great and there were few Royal Navy ships patrolling. Piracy, particularly with its most egregious forms of slave-taking was being moved out of the Mediterranean and the South Atlantic by the Royal Navy, but still the corsairs were taking slaves as far afield as Iceland and Ireland to sell them to dealers in Egypt and the kingdoms of the Persian Gulf, where the demand and the prices paid were the highest. Diplomatic officials in Whitehall were scrambling to make agreements with the assorted kingdoms with no progress as of yet and Indiamen had proven extremely tempting to those transporting slaves to market.

“Yes, sir, tossing flowers. Her complement is a bit less than one hundred. Sixteen twenty-four pound carronades, sir.” Jack looked at her gunports. Everything Tom said seemed to be borne out by what he saw. They were a mile and a half away from the corvette and _Surprise_ had the weather gauge. He pulled the glass away from his face and Pullings saw his eyes gleam as he had not seen them since they had been off the coast of Chile, long ago.

“Tom, given that virtually everyone has already had breakfast, beat to quarters, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” Pullings said, trying to contain his smile and  he descended the mast.

Jack called for more canvas to be spread and _Surprise_ picked up another knot and a half. He called for his very best Dollard glass to better see what the ships were about. It was handed to him and he fixed it on the scene before him.

What the erstwhile _Mignonne_ was about was perfectly evident, because the Indiaman was in the process of being taken, lock, stock and barrel. Looking at her, Jack surmised that there had been, effectively, very little or no resistance, despite the dozen corpses now being thrown over the side by Turks. Given the shape of the Indiaman and the battering she had obviously been subjected to very recently, Jack did not blame her captain in the least.

“Well, well.” Jack said, whistling. A relatively small and diverse array of men were walking both _Mignonne’s_ and the Indiaman’s decks, the majority of whom wore turbans and Turkish dress. Jack quickly counted -- there were about thirty visible on each of the ships.  At least it was not a Malay vessel -- there was a possibility of survivors from the Indiaman, for the corsairs made it a rule to take prisoners virtually always. Corsairs had a lust for taking slaves that boded well for their surrendering prisoners, at least initially, versus the Malays who usually immediately killed everyone on board, would never surrender and had to be completely destroyed or driven far off. Jack trained his glass up at her colours. Her ensign was green with what appeared to be white writing in Arabic across the top over a double pointed sword framed by four crescents, an ensign that Jack had never seen the like, except on the galleys of Barbary pirates. “Pass the word for Dr. Maturin, his assistant, Mr. Adams and Mr. Mays, my clerk on deck, if you please.” He called and the word was passed down the companionway whilst Jack squinted with his good eye through his glass at the ornate embroidered calligraphy of the flag.  
  

نَصرٌ مِنَ اللَّـهِ وَفَتحٌ قَريبٌ وَبَشِّرِ المُؤمِنينَ يَا مُحَمَّد

 

Within minutes, Stephen and Mr. Adam were standing on the deck, dressed. Mr. Mays appeared shortly thereafter.

“Gentleman, I ask your pardon for disturbing you, but if you may be of any assistance, I should greatly appreciate it. That vessel with the green ensign with something written on it -- do you think you might be able to make the writing out if you ascend a bit on the mast? Not so very high, a good twenty feet and I believe you might make it out fair. Gage, Blackstone, bear a hand there, if you please, help the gentleman. Handsomely now. Not so very high, just high enough to get a better vantage point.”  This took a good long while, Mr. Adam never having attempted to climb a mast in his life nor even a tree since he left Charterhouse in the last century. He was amazingly game, however -- Stephen thought it must be his great happiness of the storm finally being over, the fresh sea air stimulating him.  Adam was clapped on to the mast with a seaman on either side of him to ensure he would not fall when he held the glass to his eye and squinted to read the ensign. Jack passed his best glass for Mr. Adam with a significant look to Gage, who received it with the reverence it merited.  
  
Stephen professed immediately to not being able to make anything of it out. Arabic was not his strong suit, he said. Mr. Adam, it turned out, was a scholar of Arabic, having negotiated with both the Mughals and Tipu Sultan himself and having studied for years with a mullah whilst living in Calcutta. He squinted and mouthed the words silently and then repeated them slowly aloud as he read the ornate script on the flag again.

“ _Naṣrun mina'llāhi wa fatḥun qarībun wa bashshiri'l-mu’minīna yā muḥammad._ ” Mr. Adam read very slowly.

“If you please, what does it signify, sir?” Jack said. They all looked expectantly towards Mr. Adam.

“It is a quote from the Koran, sir, the holy book of the Musselmen. It means, roughly, “Victory from Allah and an eminent conquest; and give good tidings to the believers, O Muhammad." Mr. Adam said, putting the glass down into Gage's hand. Jack smiled and started climbing down as Mr. Adam was helped down.

“Thank you, very much, Mr. Adams.” Jack said and bowed to him when his feet were on the deck.  

“Tom, lay me alongside her on the larboard just out of their carronade range and then we shall give her broadsides with our long nines. With those carronades, they cannot possibly do anything until we are yardarm to yardarm and we shall have to board her. In any case, they appear to be all taken up with the Indiaman, she is skittering all over the place.” Jack had been training the crew with the guns, alternating between the carronades and the long nines on the larboard side back in Tristan da Cuhna, for there had been little else for them to do whilst Stephen ingratiated himself thoroughly with the fauna of Nightingale and Gough islands. The carronades had yet to have been re-shipped on that side and Jack’s gun crews were now amongst the best he had ever had for their accuracy. He had used a massive amount of powder to that end.

“Yes, sir!” Pullings said, smiling and turning to the master, given they had no Marines.

 

Jack had the weather gauge and good luck. Tom had brought her yardarm to yardarm with _Mignonne_ on her unencumbered starboard. To Stephen’s amazement, it was all over astonishingly quick. Though short, it was exceptionally bloody. The _Surprises_ had boarded and the fighting had been intense but the corsairs were far outnumbered and hampered by half of their crew still being taken up with the entangled and unnavigable Indiaman.  Stephen had watched the _Surprises_ swarm the deck -- the fighting had been furious at the worst of it, the deck awash in blood, blood running from the scuppers. Five _Surprises_ lay unmoving amongst the nineteen dead corsairs.

The Ottoman captain had stood on the quarterdeck of _Mignonne_ and shouted out to his men and bowed deeply whilst looking at Jack and the corvette’s colours were run down. At that moment, there was apparently a violent disagreement, for several of the remaining corsairs rushed the quarterdeck in an explosion of violence. One of the men standing close to the Ottoman captain, a Malay, evidently took violent exception to the captain’s actions, for he lunged and stabbed the Ottoman captain in the side of the belly with his dagger.

It all happened with inconceivable rapidity, but when it was over, there were eight more men lying mortally wounded or dead on the deck, including the Malay who had stabbed the Ottoman captain, lying there decapitated, three Turks standing over him whilst two more had caught their captain in their arms. The colours were run down and Jack had signalled to Pullings and then leaned forward to say something to Mr. Evans, the master, and they exchanged their thoughts on the prisoners. Then Jack had called to his men and they boarded the Indiaman, the _Repulse_ and the fighting started again with the corsairs who had remained with her following _Mignonne's_ boarding. The corsairs were far outnumbered and there less than five left alive on _Repulse_ by the time that Jack had taken possession of her and found to his immense amazement that his old midshipman and later lieutenant, William Mowett had been second in command. _Repulse's_ captain, James Harris, had died defending her and now Mowett was her commander. Mowett’s spirits were extremely high despite the shocking scalp wound that had been tied up and which was oozing blood through the bandage. Jack took him with the other wounded and the Indiaman’s surgeon and surgeon’s mate back to _Surprise_ , leaving enough of the _Surprises_ there for a prize crew, after the remaining corsairs had been shackled in the hold.  


The wounded Ottoman captain was brought aboard _Surprise_ on a litter shortly after Jack's return and then to Jack and Stephen’s complete astonishment had weakly pulled his turban off in a salute and had said in a very familiar and strong Cornish accent, “Doctor Maturin, sir, and Captain Aubrey, I trust I see you well,” in the moment before he lost consciousness. Jack stared so hard and so long that he thought his eyes should start from his head.

 “Oh, my God.” Jack said, finally, “Oh, dear God, Stephen, it is Gawen Hammett.”

 It was one of Jack’s former pilots, Gawen Hammett, the very best pilot on the island of Malta, indeed, one of the very best pilots in the entire Mediterranean, for he had been born on the orlop of the _Ajax_ on the day before the first battle of Cape Saint Vincent in 1780, and had sailed the Mediterranean virtually every day of his entire life. They had not seen him since the _Sophie_ had put into Malta when Captain Harte had come out and curtailed their cruise, in what seemed many lifetimes ago. When they had returned to Malta in 1813, Hammett was nowhere to be found and assumed lost at sea, for his small boat had gone missing as well. On the _Sophie_ , Stephen had treated one of Hammett’s toes after a mishap and had saved it and his foot from gangrene. Jack had liked Hammett greatly. He was a pleasant, modest and unassuming fellow, a man with a truly prodigious gift of memory for the hydrographic details of every harbour he had ever entered and a similar memory for the idiosyncrasies of the handling of every ship he had ever boarded, a true savant of a pilot. He was the only pilot Jack had ever met whose knowledge of the tricky dog leg of Port Mahón exceeded his own and Hammett knew at least two dozen ports in the Med as well as he knew Mahón.  


Jack was utterly dumbfounded to see that it was Hammett who commanded the corvette, the _Mignonne_ which had been renamed the _Nasrullah_ (“The Victory of Allah,” Mr. Adam informed him) that had captured Mowett’s now command, the heavily laden and brand new off the stocks, _Repulse_ , limping alone in the middle of the Indian Ocean, as his prize. Hammett dressed as a Turk, spoke Turkish and some other tongues Jack could not guess at with his diverse crew of pirates --  mostly Turks and assorted Barbary pirates with a handful of Malays and Chinese out in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Now Mowett was sitting in the cabin with his head bandaged after Stephen had stitched up a spectacular scalp wound and Jack was pouring him and Tom another glass of port and they sat there in momentary stunned silence at the revelation that their pilot was an Ottoman corsair until Mowett finally spoke, responding to Jack's friendly inquiry of how they happened to come to be so far south in the Indian Ocean.

“We had made our bill of lading in Bombay, sir, near mid-December, ready to depart with the rest of convoy. There were nine of us. Admiral Blackwood came and inspected us and pressed one hundred and ninety men out of the all of us. Captain Harris and the other captains went as a group and represented that we were cruel shorthanded, that it would difficult to even make sail and make it back to Portsmouth, let alone defending the ships in any capacity whatever.  He had taken sixty-five of _Repulse's_ best hands. He gave us ten back, so that our entire complement was eighty-five. He said we would be fine as we were travelling in convoy.”

 “Why?” Jack said, quietly. “Why were so many taken from you? There is no war in progress. I should think they would have a surfeit of sailors in Bombay."  
  
“The plague had been abroad in Bombay and apparently many of their people had died in the previous six months. At least that is what I was made to understand.” Mowett said, taking a deep draught from his glass. ”And so we made sail and less than a week out, the barometer dropped lower than I have ever seen over the course of two days and it commenced to blow. The gale dispersed the entire convoy within a day and a half. There must have been three typhoons in succession. We were fair battered. Four deaths, I am sad to report and over two dozen in such bad shape they could not attend their duty. Our surgeon and his mate were busy non-stop. No sign of the other ships, Admiral. We made way such as we could, having lost so very much, coming due west and very early this morning, we were set upon by the _Mignonne_. Captain Harris recognised her -- he had seen her in the Med back in '97. We could barely navigate and she was and is still quite fast when well-handled, and the Turks knew her quite well. We fought her as well as we could -- you can be certain of that, given we knew what we were up against but there was really no chance. She had sixteen guns and it looked like near her full complement --  perhaps seventy-five. We have twenty-six guns, but had virtually no one to fight them and we were barely navigable, having lost so many spars. We did serve them out twice with grape and cleared their deck at least, before they boarded us. Then their captain boarded us and I was astounded by how relatively well we were treated, at least until _Surprise_ came into view. No real atrocities, though we lost fifteen of our people. Gawen Hammett as the captain of a Turkish corsair ship -- I should never have credited such a thing.” Mowett said.

 “Did you recognise him at all, William? Did he seem to recognise you?”  
  
“No, sir, I did not. Not in the least. But I believe he did recognise me. I, of course, could not understand a word he was saying. I would never have recognised him, sir. I would have wagered that I had never seen him before in my life. I could not believe it when I looked up and saw _Surprise_ on the horizon. You could have knocked me over with a feather, sir. I thought I must be seeing things, that this," he touched the bandage on his head, "had knocked all the sense from me. I have never been happier to see an old friend, never in life, sir." Mowett said and he fairly beamed. "She was the most beautiful sight any of us had ever seen. They were bustling us down when we saw her and I said, "Have faith, men and be of good cheer, we shall not be spending next Christmas in Arabia after all."

 “Indeed.” Jack said, pouring another round for Mowett and Pullings.

  
Eight hours later in the late afternoon, Jack was alone in the great cabin when Stephen came in, pulling the door closed behind him. Jack looked up at him. 

“Hammett?”

 “He is dead.” Stephen said. “It would be hard to say if it was peritonitis or if he bled to death from the belly wound or both, God rest his soul.” Jack said nothing for a long while. Stephen took a glass and poured himself sherry from the decanter and then sat down on the stern locker.

“Did he speak with you, Stephen?” Jack said, finally, turning towards him.

“He did.” Stephen said, sighing. “You may recall, after the Peace of Amiens, Malta was repeatedly attacked by pirates, that is corsairs - a Captain Moresby was said to have finally driven the pirates entirely out from Malta in 1811."

 “Fairfax Moresby is in Mauritius, now.” Jack said. "He has been sent there to suppress the slave trade."

 “Apparently Hammett’s talents as a pilot were very well known to the Mediterranean corsairs, especially the Turks. He was taken by Turkish corsairs off of Malta itself in October of 1804. It was represented to him that his choice was to convert and serve as as pilot to them or be made eunuch and a slave or worse and so he chose the former. His Turkish name is Abd-es-Salaam Mustapha. He was a talented seaman, as you well know, and he rose to command. He told me that the Turks always treated him well, exceptionally well, in fact. He had wives, multiple wives, and children in Constantinople. He said the hardest part of it had been the circumcision, that it near killed him."

"A damned strange thing." Jack said, shaking his head. Stephen looked at him sharply.

"Really, Jack? Should you not choose the same? Circumcision and conversion over emasculation and a lifetime of slavery?"

"But to be a goddamned pirate, a corsair... their hold was full of slaves, more than three dozen of them, poor, miserable creatures, the lot. Not all of them black Africans, neither, quite assorted. At least less than half a dozen were dead.” Jack said shaking his head. "I should think you of all people would believe there to be no justification for such evil.” Stephen said nothing for a long time.

 “Of course it is wickedness; it is a total abomination, but it is the evil of the institution of slavery itself. I would assume that any of those men in the hold would prefer to become a slave-taking corsair rather than be castrated forthwith to live out their lives as eunuch slaves, that depravity of the Mussulmen. Survival and preservation of of one's virile principle and person is far more defensible than acting for mere self-enrichment. Hammett did not choose his lot nor did he engage in it merely to enrich himself. I confess that I cannot imagine living with the ignominy of being placed in such a position." Stephen said, reflecting upon it, somberly, given that self-destruction would mean eternal perdition, and any action with the intention of bringing about such an end would as well, no matter the rationalisation. No amount of complex casuistry would change that outcome. He shuddered at the thought of such a plight.

 "Did he say anything else, Stephen?"

 "He said they taught him to read and write in Arabic, that he is a man of some account in Constantinople, apparently much caressed by the Sultan himself. He leaves his wives and children well-provided for. I for one am glad it is not for us to see him hanged from the yardarm with the rogue's march playing." Stephen said. Jack frowned.

"A pirate? A damned pirate?"

"I can think of no man I have ever met who would choose his principles over his scrotum when the knife is drawn. He was young, Jack, barely twenty-four when he was taken. Should you have chosen castration and slavery at the age of twenty-four?" Stephen said, looking at him sharply. Jack paled. "Have we not had shipmates that appeared to have been former pirates? I can recall two, at least."

"Well, there is much in what you say. I will confess to feeling relieved that he died in the sick bay. God knows, I do not relish seeing a former shipmate hanged." Jack said. Stephen rose.

“Jack, pray excuse me now, I must go back to the sick berth.  I left that good man, Marshall, of the _Repulse_ and his loblolly boy with the numerous wounded and we have more to do and I must attend Jennings.” Stephen said. “Perhaps _Repulse’s_ loblolly boy will now be so good as to accommodate me with some assistance, before these damned rapscallions turn his head.”

 

 

At last, the very long day was over, and a bruised, aching and weary Jack Aubrey sat with Stephen in the great cabin, a particularly delicious supper brought unbidden by Killick and his mate, with compliments from the cook of the _Repulse_ and several bottles of her best Madeira. Jack had ordered an extra ration of grog for all the _Surprises_ for their hard work and down to the youngest boy, they all had calculated their share in the prize money before the sun had set over the Indian Ocean. They had come out very well; they had lost five men, had seven seriously injured and a dozen with relatively minor injuries. _Surprise_ herself had only had her boarding netting and hammocks bear the brunt of the _Mignonne's_ carronades, as well as losing two spars. The entire crew were in excellent spirits all around except for their skipper and his much concerned particular friend and physician, who sat thoughtfully gazing at Jack’s unusually glum face.

"Your mind is heavy tonight, brother." Stephen said. "You have two handsome prizes brought to you by Providence herself, surely, and you are the Admiral, so there should be no Admiral’s portion taken out. But you are beset with melancholy."

"Such a damned waste.” Jack said. “Christ, what a world this is.” He was silent for a very long time.  “By all rights, Hammett should have been at least a warrant officer in the service, at least a master. Any man who ever had him as pilot on his ship would have said as much. Such a seaman, such native skill and ability, squandered. I cannot credit it, Stephen: Gawen Hammett, turned Turk, Gawen Hammett, a corsair, Gawen Hammett, dead." He shook his head. "Gawen Hammett, taken by corsairs to become a corsair because he was so very good at what he did and they recognised it and seized the opportunity and did not give a damn for his family nor his birth. Gawen Hammett, pressed to be a goddamned pirate and thereby achieving command, of a type. My God." He stared into his glass. "Nelson knew him as a lad and said he would be the greatest pilot who would ever live in this modern age in the Mediterranean. He was one of our pilots at the Battle of the Nile. He knew Aboukir Bay with his eyes closed." Jack said. They were both silent.

“How was it that he was not pressed? I have never thought to ask you in all these years. I did not truly understand such things, back when we were on the _Sophie_ , how a Cornishman could be a pilot in Malta.”

“That is a long story.” Jack said. “The Cornish generally are great seamen, as I assume you have learned by now. Hammett’s father was Cadoc Hammett, who had been to sea as a ship’s boy back during the Battle of Quiberon Bay in 1759 on the first rate, the _Royal George_. He was a thoroughgoing seaman,but completely unlettered, he could neither read nor write, could only make his mark with an “X.” As I've told you, Gawen was born on _Ajax_ , the day before the first Battle of Cape St. Vincent in 1780.  The men said he would bring them luck, oddly enough, considering that they thought women were always bad luck, but he was a good ‘un, a big healthy baby who did not cry when the guns went off. They said it was an omen, that he was born to fight a man-of-war to great victories." Jack refilled his and Stephen's glasses and drank.

"Fourteen years later he and Cadoc were serving under Lord Nelson on _Agamemnon_ during the Siege of Calvi. Cadoc had been Nelson's coxswain and was by Nelson’s side when he was wounded in the eye. The elder Hammett was shot repeatedly whilst carrying Nelson from the forward battery back to his tent as Nelson was blinded by the sand. Cadoc was so badly wounded that he could not really serve on any ship in any capacity after that and was laid up in the hospital at Malta for a very long spell. Gawen was just a boy. Cadoc was retired out of the service. His intention was to stay in the Med, on Malta, fishing, because the doctors told him the cold at home would finish him off and he asked Nelson to act so Gawen would not be pressed at any time in the future until his own death, because he was physically dependent on the boy. He could not stand without Gawen helping to lift him and he could barely walk a step without his assistance. He had been at sea his entire life, there was no way that he would stay on land unless he was bedridden. Nelson went to Lord Hood and asked Hood to obtain an Admiralty order exempting Gawen from being pressed until Cadoc's death, which everyone feared would be sooner rather than later. As unheard of as that was, Hood was so very fond of Nelson and grateful that he was alive and so devastated by the loss of his vision in his right eye that he obtained an Admiralty order that permanently exempted Gawen from ever being pressed, which I assure you, Stephen, was quite unheard of. This was before Hood fell out of favour and was recalled to London. Nelson was extremely fond of Gawen, he told the boy that he believed he should become a great seaman, a capital pilot, and that he would give him this letter of exemption from impressment conditional on his promising to act as pilot for any Royal Navy vessel whenever he was asked and never doing so for the French and Gawen agreed. And so father and son ended up in Malta with a fishing boat, though they ended up sailing all over the Mediterranean. And that is how it came to pass that four years later, he was one of the pilots in Aboukir Bay."

 "He ended up not serving in the Royal Navy at his father's behest." Stephen said. "The exemption Nelson obtained for him was instrumental in his becoming a corsair, ironically enough. Had he been on the lower deck of a man-of-war, such a thing would never have happened. Do you think his father would have relented had he been offered a midshipman's commission? Surely not." Jack was silent for a very long time, gazing out the stern window. Given Jack's reticence, Stephen thought it fitting to change the subject. "How many prisoners do we have?" He said, reaching for a petit-fours. Killick's jubilance at their prizes had led him to open the tin, completely unbidden.

"A little less than a dozen." Jack said. "Assuming they all survive long enough to hang." Jack sighed. "Lord, it is an ugly thing. I suppose I may be in the right of it, taking them to Calcutta for the authorities to deal with them. We may be His Majesty's Hired Vessel, but we have no Marines and I do not relish executing anyone. I am easy in my mind, otherwise." 

"What will you do with them?"

 "I will have to send Pullings into the corvette with a prize crew and part of our crew into _Repulse_ with Mowett. I think it best to separate the corsairs into three small groups and keep them in irons. Lord, I am glad the Turks themselves killed all the remaining Malays whilst they was on _Mignonne_ , surrendering to us. Was that not the damnedest thing, corsairs surrendering? Almost as uncanny as that galley on that island back in the year fifteen, Stephen. I thought we should have to kill all of them on both ships, that there was no other way. Hammett must have gone a bit mad, seeing us and then surrendering. I never imagined a Turk surrendering and I suppose neither did that wicked Malay -- what a goddamned waste." He turned and looked out the stern window at the darkness and was silent a long while. He sighed deeply and spoke.

“We must take our bearings tomorrow. I am certain we are easily two thousand miles nautical miles from Cape Town, probably more than a thousand from Mauritius. We shall sail to Calcutta. I hope we have enough spars and cordage for _Repulse_ so she don't have to be towed. _Mignonne_ is well enough."He drained his glass. "Did Hammett say anything else to you when he regained consciousness?"

"He told me to thank you, Jack, for all your kindness to him. He said he would die easy amongst old friends. He said to give you this, that he wanted you to have it." Stephen said, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out something out, that was just slightly bigger than a tarnished cartwheel penny. Jack took it and examined it and his hand trembled.

"Upon my word." Jack said hoarsely, his eyes moist. "It is his copper Nile medal. He had carried it upon his person all these years. I cannot credit it."

"He also asked me to ask Mowett's pardon for him. He said that the Turks had taught him about something he called _qadar_ , that this meeting was brought about by fate, by the hand of God. It was this _qadar_ that led him to take and command  _Mignonne_ , the first ship he had ever piloted, it was this _qadar_ that brought us together with him before he died, so he could die with his countrymen." Jack said nothing but frowned. “What is it?”

“God’s my life,  I have not thought of Mowett in years, now. He never got his swab. What a travesty, a man like Mowett, second on an Indiaman. Those infernal scrubs in Whitehall..." Jack despised any of his proteges being treated shabbily. That it was a sailor as thoroughgoing and taut as Mowett rankled him deeply.

“It is, soul, better than no employment, surely? And these are times of peace.”

“He has not had a commission in five years.” Jack said, with displeasure. “He is far more deserving than so many I can name. He should have at least gotten his swab. Now, I fear I have been remiss. I have no real influence, Stephen, but surely, I could have done something.” He said, sweeping his hand across the chart he was studying.

“Does he seem discontent to you? I did not apprehend that at all.” Jack did not say what he thought was so obvious that even a hopeless lubber like Stephen should have been cognizant of it -- Mowett had just escaped being killed or made a slave by corsairs, his spirits were elevated as a result. In any event, Mowett would never give any indication that he was in the least unhappy in his lot, no matter how the vicissitudes and indifference of the Royal Navy might rankle him. It was not in his character at all. He was a man with an amicable disposition, not given to moping or ever mulling over any slight. The fact that was the case did not mean that he was not bitterly disappointed. Jack had known him since he was an oldster. The Admiral could not fathom what his own life would have been like had he made it to his late thirties, never having been made a Commander. He raised an eyebrow and drank his sherry and looked at the floor of the cabin, absently polishing Hammett's Nile medal with his napkin.

Stephen looked at him. There was some of Jack's long standing and habitual post-battle blue devils, but it appeared to him that something deeper was troubling him. He took Jack's hand, on which he had stitched up a deep gash and pressed it gently to his lips. Jack's eye met his and he half-smiled.

"The last I remember seeing Hammett, Bonden was taking him back in the blue cutter, into Valletta, from the _Sophie_ when we was standing off and I could see them talking and laughing non-stop. I can still see it like it was yesterday.  What a strange damned thing, to be blown half an ocean away and then end up in battle." Jack said quietly. "Stephen, might we retire early? I fear I am somewhat hipped. Pray do not be annoyed with me."

"You must be exhausted, my dear. You should have gone to bed hours ago." Stephen said, looking at the extreme fatigue and signs of pain written plainly across Jack's face. He rose and extended his hand. “Come to bed, Jack. Pray come to bed. It has been a gruelling day on top of a gruelling week. I shall call for Killick to clear the things after you are in your cot." For once, Jack offered no resistance and let Stephen lead him.

They went to the sleeping cabin and Jack locked the door. Stephen undressed him, checking his naked person for missed injuries and found his back and sides bruised black and a now-clotted graze at his waist on his side that had somehow been made without ripping his clothing in any visible manner, though his shirt was soaked with blood. He palpated Jack's ribs beneath the bruises and Jack winced.

"Stephen, may we not do this in the morning, if you please?" Jack said.

"Of course, pray forgive me, soul." Stephen said. He helped Jack with his nightshirt, as his shoulders were so sore that he could not raise his arms and loosened Jack's queue completely.

"Come in the cot with me now." Jack said.

"Killick shall never let me hear the end of it, that I will have corrupted you so thoroughly, finally, with my infamous slatternly ways and will bring disgrace upon you, the ship and the entire Royal Navy. Let me call him to clear the things and then I shall return."

"I must lie down, brother and I fear that I shall fall asleep before you get back." Jack said, yawning. "Pray do not make me beg." Stephen relented and hopped on Jack's cot and steeled himself for Jack's hop and roll and lay down against him.

"What is so urgent, joy?" Stephen said softly, stroking his brow.

"Nothing," Jack said, his eyes getting heavy, "nothing, old Stephen. I just so wished to feel you next to me and know this day is over. Pray kiss me now, before I fall asleep and do not leave me until you hear my loathsome snoring. You are so good, soul." Jack said and Stephen kissed him, watching him fall into sleep like a stone plummeting to the bottom of a deep sunlit pool. Within seconds, Jack's breathing had changed and he was lightly snoring, wedged on his side against Stephen’s body. Stephen sat up and lightly jumped out of the cot, slipping on his shoes to go and make his last rounds before retiring.


End file.
